


Fragments

by magicarnival



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, random disjointed rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicarnival/pseuds/magicarnival
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dreams were painfully blurry and distant. Or maybe that was reality." An exploration of Allen's psyche and the 14th's gradual take-over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I intentionally sound crazy and random and disjointed. Its supposed to show the chaos of Allen's mind. Indeed, the tense changes are part of the effect, and I think they don't make it too awkward to read, but if they do, let me know. Hmm... I wrote this in the angsting over Allen's predicament when first went public ;__; (AKA, when the chapters came out about it) and put off posting it because I felt like it wasn't done and I was going to choose between the phrases with the /'s, but decided they were a neat artistic effect :)
> 
> Originally posted to lj in 2009 for a prompt table I never finished.

 

_He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,_  
He is Wisdom to the mighty, He is Succour to the brave,  
So the world shall be His footstool, and the soul of Time His slave,  
Our God is marching on.

Glory, glory, halleluiah. Our God is marching on.

I can almost hear the trumpet sound, the Lord's return is near,  
But there're still so many people lost, somehow they've got to hear;  
Lord, please give me one more hour, one more day, just one more year,  
With Your truth, we're marching on.

 

* * *

 

  
He remembers when he learned to juggle. Mana had taught him. No, they’d learned together, so they could hide with a traveling circus. But Mana had been better after all, since Allen could only use one hand properly – no, it was because Mana had bigger hands and was an old man who’d done it for years – but that’s silly, Mana was only one year older than him.  
  
It was a secret language, between just the two of them. Then who’s the third? Who doesn’t belong?  
  
Dreams were painfully blurry and distant. Or maybe that was reality.  
  
Sometimes he studied his reflection in the mirror. Watched it. He watched it for any change, anything that didn’t belong. He waited to see the skin of his forehead peel back to form those god-awful crosses. He watched to see his eyes fade or flicker to that flat, cat-like yellow. He watched to see, check and make sure, that the face looking back at him was the one he remembered. Were there any changes to his face? He was still Allen Walker, right?  
  
Had he always parted his hair to the side like that?  
  
The shadow haunted his reflection and he wondered who was more real.  
  
He stared at the Black Order uniform, a knot of meaningless clasps and buckles. He struggled to remember how the god-awful jacket fit together.  
  
Secret, ugly jealousies wormed their way into Allen’s mind. Everyone seemed to know who they were except him. Everyone seemed to know where they were going. What they were fighting for. He hid the terrible feeling away, and pretended not to be scared by the way he almost decided to kill Labi. He felt sick with jealousy and pretended it was indigestion when Linalee asked what was wrong.  
  
He ordered twelve dishes that day and Jerry looked at him strangely. Did he usually order more? Did he not like ravioli before? Was it because he hadn’t ordered dango today?  
  
“Didn’t you just get the same thing yesterday, Allen?”  
  
Had he?  
  
Had his arm always burned like that? With a dull ache all the time, even when he let it hang limp at his side? Was that normal? Was it something he used to ignore? Had it always been that way? Or had it begun to hurt more? Had it begun to consume him alive like a traitor – like a Noah?  
  
Was this his memory of a cold, hungry night, or someone else’s?  
  
What fool hardy words he’d said. He’d stop the 14th from attacking the Order? He could hardly stop the 14th from picking his soul apart. Ha, what a joke. His own path? Who was he kidding? He’d never know where to go if someone weren’t directing him.  
  
Music seemed to always be playing in the back rooms of his mind, echoing in the silent hallways and whispering in his ear whenever it got too quiet. The same haunting melody taunted him, tortured him as he waited in silence for the insanity to come upon him. What was taking so long? He hums  _halleluiah_  (to himself) to drown out the noise/sound/song and pass the time.  
  
At some point, he realizes he’s forgotten the words.  
  
Allen had silent nightmares, when’d he’d wake with a jolt, the silence of the room oppressive as the fresh bandages around his chest. The warm, stickiness of the blood would slide across his face and he would feel it dried between his fingers and on his pillow. He’d slide from his bed and stare at himself in the mirror, watching the blood ooze from the marks across his forehead. He’d clean them up and they’d be gone by morning. Usually/maybe/possibly/probably/hopefully.  
  
Mana taught him to be a gentleman. No, it was Manners Mistress, with her stern glare and sharp tongue who told him to sit up straight and use his little fork on the very far left for fruits smaller than the first joint of his thumb.  
  
The memories slipped/drifted away like sailors to their deaths/depths.  
  
Cross looked a lot younger when he’d spoken to him yesterday. Oh, wait, that’s silly. Master’s dead.  
  
Allen wonders if he’s forgotten people. It’s hard to remember them as memories slip/slide between his fingers like sand/water. Was that a new Finder or just one he forgot? Had someone died in the attack at Headquarters and he’d forgotten them? It seemed too cruel.  
  
It’s been getting a bit hard to put everyone’s names in order. He wonders if people become suspicious when he forgets them, or if they don’t mind, because they’re new, along with nearly all the rest of the staff. And his heart squeezes/freezes for one long moment as he tries/struggles to remember Johnny’s name.  
  
A boy called Jean joins the Science Division. Allen wonders what such a young child is doing here. He pretends not to notice the way the kid’s face drops when he realizes Allen doesn’t remember him.  
  
Link follows him around all the time, but there are still times when he’s alone. Sometimes they lock Allen in his room. As if he couldn’t do any damage in there/as if he couldn’t get out/as if they believed a lock could stop him once he snapped.  
  
He can hear the clanging of the bells as they roll out the empty coffins to be buried/back to storage for the next batch of dead men. They already burned the bodies inside them.  
  
He breathed painfully, suffocatingly, gulping at the air, grasping after it as it seemed to flee his lungs.  
  
_Akuma._  His eye pulsed.  _Akuma._  
  
“I know.”  
  
Allen would lie awake at night and wonder what memories had slipped away with the night and what memories had moved in the next day/what things he’d forgotten and what things he remembered/was he still the same as yesterday?/ had he woken as the same person he’d been when he’d gone to sleep?  
  
He had dreams of sprawling villas and lush gardens. The smell of horses and lavender whispers memories into his mind. He also remembers sewage, the stench of it, the stink clinging to his body, the loose, crumbling clothes and the shrinking church congregation and the growing cemetery lots. As the congregation emptied and the graveyard filled.  
  
There are words, rough and empty. Condolences. Apologies.  
  
And he watched the waters rise, the roaring of the waves as they crested. And he remembered how he laughed on the day they decided to call it the Great Flood/Noah’s Ark.  
  
This is the story of today/yesterday. But they are the children of tomorrow.  
  
He wonders if the memory he traded away was worth the one he got. It is a memory of watching a world end and Allen wonders distantly if he was the one who caused it.  
  
Today, he woke to dreams of burning.  
  
“Allen?” The pretty black-haired girl whispered.  
  
He stared at her, his mind clawing for a name, which slipped between his fingers; his memories shattered in broken shards.  
  
_Mana._  
  
And after a while, all that’s left is the Earl.


End file.
